


I Remember You

by FieryEclipse



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Comfort, First Meetings, Help, Kindness, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, ability awakening, hints of future slash, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the New York subway, the strings of Peter's empathy are tugged in response to a particular tall, dark-haired watchmaker who is in need of help and kindness. Unable to ignore someone in need, Peter takes the first step in initiating destiny. Who knew a few kind words from a stranger could mean so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Remember You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first ever Heroes fanfic, so I'd appreciate any comments if you'd like to leave any :) I'm so in love with this show, and there will definitely be more stories to come!
> 
> The * indicates a different POV :)

The bustling, cramped and smelly subway carriage hurtled along the tunnels under New York, and Peter Petrelli looked about himself contently. Not that this was the most favorable of locations, especially with barely enough room to stretch his legs out or clean air to breathe, but compared to that day's horrific lunch with his father, literally anything else was an improvement.

 

“Lunch” was the guise he'd been lured out under, but Peter had hardly been surprised to instead be ambushed by one of Arthur's usual lectures on how his youngest son was “wasting his life” and “failing to live up to the expectations of this family”. He had suffered through half an hour of it, barely nibbling through the breadbasket due to lack of appetite, before excusing himself with a fake call from his current patient. Not that his current patient, Mrs Barker, could have possibly phoned him while in the coma (he had felt more than a little guilty using her as an excuse) but it was just another testament to Arthur's utter disinterest in Peter's life that he didn't even notice. Or care.

 

So Peter had got as far from the restaurant as quickly as possible, driven by his recent craving to be around people. He couldn't explain it, didn't even think about it really, all he knew was that lately he just needed to surround himself in a crowd of emotions, relationships and feelings that sparked between the millions of people in the city. And so that was why he was currently riding the subway aimlessly with no decided destination in the middle of a busy and crowded afternoon. Somehow it was calming to be near lots of people. He found a sort of comfort in their proximity, and entertained himself imagining their lives and emotions, and sometimes he pretended that if he just concentrated enough, he would be able to actually _feel_ what they felt...

 

The trundling carriage pulled into a stop and too many people piled inside the already overcrowded space. Peter had to fold his legs up to make room for more standing space, and watched with mild interest as the newcomers weaved themselves into the tight-knit formation. A dozen people shuffled past his feet, and Peter immediately felt himself drawn to one man in particular as his constant urge to help people kicked into overdrive.

 

What he noticed at once was that the air around this man was almost palpable with misery. Sadness, envy and hopelessness weighed heavy on his shoulders, and the secondary wave of those emotions hit Peter so strongly they almost suffocated him. The inexplicable urge to do anything to ease that pain coursed through him, but he didn't know how to or if he should even get involved. He knew from experience that some people didn't take too kindly to being approached by a stranger in _this_ city.

 

He couldn't explain how he could actually (truly, for once) sense that man's emotions, but he could just _feel_ them suddenly, as if they were his own. The guy was quite a pathetic sight and Peter hoped he wasn't staring too openly: he couldn't have been more than a few years older than Peter himself; tall and lean, but hunched as if self-conscious of his height; handsome but completely unaware of it, disguised behind neatly parted hair and a lumpy sweater-vest; shuffling his too-big feet constantly to avoid them being stepped on by the ignorant passers-by who seemed to be going out of their way to bump him; and attempting to balance a heavy-looking, over-flowing box that rattled as it swayed in his arms. And most upsetting of all was the perfect expression of calmness and composure on his face that he wore for the outside world, while his emotions secretly bubbled and steamed around him like a murky fog.

 

Suddenly Peter was very aware that his own face probably looked as if he'd seen a puppy be kicked, and so fought to rearrange his features into a more neutral expression. He honestly tried not to stare to much but couldn't tear his eyes away for more a few seconds, and each time he looked back the poor guy's luck just got worse and worse.

 

*

 

Gabriel cursed internally as yet another careless person elbowed him out of the way painfully. He never could be sure if that happened to everyone else while on public transport too; only to him because he was taller than average; or just because it was another cruel joke the universe had dumped on him. It wasn't even the stinging pain in his ribs that annoyed him the most, which he suspected would form into a nasty bruise (like it had the last time he took the subway, which was why he tended to avoid doing so), it was the amount of people who had bashed into the box he was failing to defend from their clumsiness. Didn't they have any semblance of respect for his belongings...?! Of course not. Each time the contents clanked against each other or scraped as they were shoved, Gabriel winced and could do nothing but hope the pieces weren't getting too badly damaged.

 

But what was to be expected? He'd never been blessed with good luck. Not even normal luck. Sadly, Gabriel's fortune seemed to fall on the lower end of the spectrum. As did everything else in his pointless, pathetic life, and it infuriated him. For example; he'd been waiting on this particular order of clockwork for seven weeks before finally getting it. Seven weeks! In fact, he only had it now because he'd had to literally cross the city himself to remind the trader, who had stared thickly at Gabriel for an excruciatingly long time before collecting the box from where it had apparently been sitting under the desk for weeks. Right beside the mail pile. And it wasn't even a complicated order! In fact, he would even bet that it was the blandness of the pieces that had prompted the merchant to forget about him for so long. Or, he thought venomously again, maybe it was just fate playing it's usual game, as it was hardly fair for a day to go by without _at least_ seven bad things happening to him...

 

*

 

As the train rounded another corner with a particularly violent bump, Peter cringed as the man's box was once more jostled harshly and a small stream of it's contents spilled out onto the floor, bouncing with a tinkling, metallic tune. The calmness evaporated and a crest-fallen look crumpled up that face, and Peter just couldn't take it any longer. Almost before he even realised he'd moved, he was on his hands and knees on the ground beside the sighing and muttering man, helping him search for the bits and pieces he'd dropped. The form beside him froze at the closeness and Peter could have sworn it also recoiled, just a little. But he kept his concentration mostly on the task at hand, and didn't look up until he was finished.

 

“Here,” he said kindly, offering out a handful of metal screws and dial-things. He had no idea what they were, but made sure to handle them carefully. “I think that's all of them, at least I can't see any others down there.” He smiled at the man, hoping to cheer him up a little, but was met with the most shocked expression Peter had ever seen in his life. He quickly began to feel awkward under such an intense stare, and his knees began to ache against the hard floor of the carriage.

 

*

 

Gabriel blinked deep, dark eyes, slightly magnified behind his think-lensed glasses. He stared wordlessly at the young, angelic face that was smiling right at him. Down on the dirty, germ-infested floor with him at his level. Holding out most of the dropped springs and ratchets with such a respecting touch. Heat began to creep its way up his neck and face, and Gabriel's throat constricted once he realised he was being asked to actually converse with this person. But he couldn't possibly talk. He just kept staring.

 

It couldn't be for him, he concluded eventually, certain he must have misunderstood the situation somehow. People didn't help strangers like this for no reason, it just didn't happen. At least it never had in Gabriel's lifetime, anyway.

 

He didn't even know how to respond to such kindness, and hated himself more for how pathetic that was. It wasn't until another loud screech of brakes seemed to shake him to his senses that he cleared his throat. “Th- thank you.” His voice was very quiet, timid, and he cringed at that too. It seemed he couldn't do anything right today.

 

“You're welcome.” He was graced with another smile, sweet and friendly, Gabriel thought, but there was something funny with his lip. It didn't work properly, but was nice, he decided. The handful was still being patiently held out to him, and Gabriel finally took the bits of clockwork and put them back into the box, careful not to brush those long fingers or soft skin once.

 

*

 

If invisible people weren't impossible, Peter would have sworn by his reaction that Gabriel had been one his entire life. It was as if he'd never been looked in the eye before, let alone helped by a stranger. While this shared thought flushed pink in Gabriel's cheeks, it only served to further fuel Peter's ever-present need to help, and once they had both clambered clumsily back to their feet, he did just that.

 

“Why don't you take the seat? You need it more than I do.” He said with a short chuckle, wishing he didn't feel so uncomfortable under that wondrous gaze. But those eyes were so entrancing, almost chilling, as if they could look right through Peter's skin and scrutinise every part that made up his soul. He wondered if maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to get involved after all, and if he was on his way to getting a punch in the face for his troubles.

 

He watched as Gabriel looked confusedly between the box in his arms and the recently vacated seat beside them. Again, by the looks of him it was as if he'd never seen an empty subway seat before (which was actually entirely possible in this city). “No. No, I couldn't...” The way Gabriel acted as though this was a highest honour he wasn't worthy of made Peter ache in sympathy. No, this _was_ the right thing to do, and thankfully violence seemed out of the equation. Peter was glad he'd made the effort to help this man.

 

“Please take it, my stop is quite soon anyway.” He lied. And in the innocent, too-friendly Petrelli manner, he reached out and patted a shoulder reassuringly.

 

*

 

It hadn't occurred to Peter that a man who was shocked dumb by a smile might be uncomfortable with a touch, but Gabriel managed to act mostly normal, thank god. He didn't think his cheeks could survive any further blushing, let alone his ego. The touch was soft and foreign, and embarrassingly, Gabriel couldn't remember the last time anyone other than his mother had touched him.

 

After a little more persuasion, Gabriel thanked Peter again and gratefully took the seat and set down his heavy cargo, still anxious at the kind, seemingly genuine gesture. It was just so unfamiliar. Secretly he couldn't decipher the cause of his blushing reaction: was it just from being noticed for once? From someone caring just enough to be nice rather than crush his toes or bruise his ribs? Or was it because these things were coming from a man that couldn't be described as anything other than beautiful?

 

*

 

Satisfied with the seating arrangements, Peter found a close by space to stand. Feeling better knowing he had done his bit to making someone's day a little brighter, his thoughts reluctantly returned to the head of the Petrelli family. The train swayed as it wound its way through the city, and Peter looped his wrist through one of the hand-straps in the ceiling and crossed his free arm to his shoulder, using his forearm as a chin rest.

 

Despite the many times he had insisted against it to Nathan, truthfully Peter couldn't stop Arthur's harsh words from instilling more and more doubt in his mind each time he saw him. Which was another of the reasons that he tried his best to avoid his father and his strict expectations. Peter knew his job as a hospice nurse made a difference in people's lives (or well, their deaths), and he didn't rely on praise and compliments to keep him going. But he deeply wished that his father's frown didn't haunt him on the days while he sat at a bedside, holding a hand for the simple reason of comforting someone who needed it.

 

Always one to follow his heart and do what's right, Peter would adamantly fight against the restricting ideals of his family if he believed it made a better difference to even one life. And his job did, he _knew_ it did. This way he could do his bit to save the world one person at a time.

 

Take today for example: he could already feel a huge shift in the other man's emotions, and it warmed him to know he'd helped. The storm cloud above that neatly-sleeked hair was brightening behind Peter, he could tell without even looking. Wonder, amazement and utter gratitude radiated strongly off Gabriel, and Peter threw an imaginary middle finger up at his father.

 

He tried to casually peek over his shoulder at the seat behind him, wanting to get another sneaky glimpse of the eyes that still burned vividly in his mind, but instead found himself staring directly into them. Both men jumped and looked away, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Peter laughed to himself, turning around fully smiling at Gabriel again now the jig was up. “So are you a collector?”

 

Gabriel looked up, surprised yet again (Peter vaguely wondered if maybe that was just his normal face), and his dark eyes blinked rapidly while he processed that yes, this stranger was indeed addressing him. Then his gaze dropped to the box on his lap that Peter was eyeing.

 

“Sort of. They're for my shop. I'm a watchmaker.” He spoke with a tender, gentle voice again, his tongue prolonging the “r” as his voice trailed off. Impressively groomed, heavy brows lowered and Gabriel seemed to retreat into himself as if he wished he hadn't said that. Again, Peter was almost winded by the sudden force of self-loathing this man felt for himself and, apparently, his occupation.

 

He tried to keep the spirit of the barely-started conversation light. “Really? That's awesome. I'd love to have that sort of patience.” He said encouragingly, hoping that some interest in the field would be appreciated.

 

*

 

Gabriel lifted his gaze back to Peter's bright one, intrigued. Lovely eyes, he noted. Wide and trusting with long, dark eyelashes. Somehow this man had a way of making Gabriel forget about everyone else crushed around them in this tin can. He almost made Gabriel feel _special_ , which was a secret wish that he had harboured all his life but never even got close to. Sadly, he doubted he ever would.

 

“It's not so much patience as understanding. Watch making is a very precise craft, very intricate. You could have all the patience in the world, but if you don't _understand_ the piece then it's pretty much pointless. Every one is different, you can't just use the same method on them all...” His voice had sped up over his short-lived ramble, before hurriedly dying again. His face burned more and he couldn't ignore the feeling of stupidity rolling over him. Of course this man didn't really care about his craft, he was just being polite (for some strange reason that Gabriel still didn't understand). It still unnerved him, although the novelty of being chosen to be talked to out of the dozens of other people in here made him push away the nasty thought that maybe this was some kind of prank.

 

Rather lacking experience in flirting, any attention directed his way from either man or woman was enough to make Gabriel giddy. He didn't even know if this qualified as flirting, but it was more than he had experienced in a long time. And maybe he just wanted to imagine for just one minute that anyone that attractive could really be interested in _him._ It sure seemed that way, at least. “Anyway, it's not for everyone. Watch making, I mean. I know it's a pretty boring, useless job...” he shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

 

*

 

Peter tried not to frown at that last part. He got the uncomfortable feeling that “boring and useless” was a phrase drummed into Gabriel from an outside source to make him feel worthless about his profession. That thought was a little too close to home for his own liking.

 

“Well I think that's a really cool job. Special. Unique.” He said defiantly, almost as if Arthur and whoever had put Gabriel down could hear them. Gabriel scoffed and threw Peter a look that said he was really beginning to think he was a crazy guy who started strange conversations with random men on trains. “No really,” he chose to elaborate. “You get to make people happy by fixing what's important to them. Never underestimate the sentimental attachment to a watch – ask my brother if you don't believe me...” Peter said with a laugh, remembering Nathan huddled on the staircase at home with tears in his eyes. He'd just been dumped by his girlfriend at the time, who had broken his prized, 21 st- birthday-present-Rolex, and Nathan had moped and cried for his watch rather than the girlfriend. To this day Peter couldn't recall her name, as Nathan never mentioned her, but the Rolex however was a tragedy he was still to recover from. Peter wondered idly if this timid watchmaker could have been able to fix it and spare his brother all those years of heartbreak.

 

*

 

That was sweet, Gabriel mused. He was sweet, this guy who was purposely trying to cheer him up. He allowed a smile to lift his lips, just momentarily, and was rewarded with another asymmetrical one in return. For the next few conversation-less minutes Gabriel enjoyed just watching this unaware stranger from the back as he swayed in time with the carriage. What a strange little man, he thought happily. With such a lovely face, kind, open and inspiring. And he had a sneaking sense that his personality matched it perfectly. It had been years since anyone had looked at Gabriel the way Peter just had repeatedly, let alone a complete stranger. It was so bizarre, and Gabriel itched to get his head around this guy.

 

His nimble mind worked fast as he surveyed Peter intently, as if trying to see how he worked... what made him tick... He was kind-hearted (clearly), optimistic, eager to please, afraid of letting others down, he wanted to prove his worth because nobody appreciated him... he wanted to be special... to be extraordinary... There was a faint niggling behind Gabriel's forehead as if a rogue idea were forming all by itself, and if he just allowed it to, it would work itself into fruition. He was coming onto something here, something important, he just didn't know what it was. Like a sixth sense that he had nothing to compare to...

 

And then his concentration was suddenly blown by the jarring ticks of Peter's irritatingly off-time watch. He hadn't noticed it before, but now it rattled around his head and he yearned to look around inside it and put things right. He tried to ignore the sound, after all there must have been dozens of watches in the carriage, yet somehow he could hear only one, as if his hearing had honed in on that particular fault.

 

After ninety three ticks it all got too much, and he blurted out without much forethought, “Your watch is broken.” He waited patiently (after all, if Gabriel was anything he was patient) for Peter to realise that _he_ was the accused. Perhaps amused that Gabriel had started the conversation this time, Peter's lopsided lip twitched a little and he tucked his long, shiny fringe back into place behind his ear. He leant back to hear better, the disobedient hair untucking itself again to swing with the momentum of the train.

 

“What, sorry?”

 

“Your watch. It's running slow.” Gabriel gestured to the large, sturdy piece decorating a slender wrist, and watched him lift it to check the numbers. They were the same that the wall clock displayed for all the travellers.

 

“Is it?” A little frown dimpled his brow.

 

“Just half a minute.” Gabriel added quietly and wishing he hadn't bothered talking at all. Now that his concentration had been broken, the incessant ticking had faded back into the blur of everyday sounds. But the noise still echoed in his head. How fascinating.

 

*

 

Peter looked down on the watchmaker, impressed. “How did you know that?” Gabriel just shrugged modestly, shy as before and more than a little pleased seeing Peter's impressed face. “See, I told you it's not a boring job – it's like you have a superpower or something.” He joked and they both sniggered at the ludicrous idea.

 

“You could come by my shop sometime? I can fix it for you.” Gabriel offered, biting his lips together in a sweet, hopeful smile that made Peter's eyes crinkle. Funny how in such a short while the very air around that man had brightened so much. Peter had been drinking in the feelings in the time between talking, feeling them seep through him as if Gabriel were a fire giving off heat. And now he could so clearly feel hope, gratitude and intrigue directed towards himself. Perhaps even a little attraction...? He couldn't be sure, as it had been so long since Peter had had anything close to a successful relationship (long or short lived), that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be wanted that way. Regardless, drinking up Gabriel's feelings was making him high, and he didn't really mind what the other man felt for him, just as long as they were good feelings.

 

Maybe he _should_ visit him at his shop? Maybe it _would_ be nice to see him again...? Even just to check up and see if he's any happier in his life? Maybe he could stop by a few times and they would become friends? So many times Nathan had criticized Peter for his rush of judgement, but he didn't care. He thought he could get to like this man, that there was definitely something special about him beneath all the desperate need to be looked after. Rarely had Peter ever felt so in sync with anyone else's emotions, not even Nathan's. Maybe destiny had something to do with it, he wondered. “Yeah, I'll do that.” He smiled, and the air between them definitely fizzled with possibility.

 

Peter watched the lights flashing past the windows being reflected in those glasses while Gabriel fumbled in his pockets for a little metal case. He produced a business card from the otherwise full stock, clearly not having many opportunities to give them away, and Peter took it happily. They smiled at each other again, unknowingly being tied together by the inevitable string of fate, until Gabriel blushed once again and broke the contact, standing up as the train slowed.

 

*

 

“This is me.” With the box tucked as securely as could be under his arm, Gabriel shuffled awkwardly on the spot for a moment. It took Peter until the third nodding gesture to understand, and this time he resumed the seat without protest.

 

Gabriel found himself torn. He needed to leave and get back to the Grandfather clock that needed it's mainspring replaced before that evening, but at the same time he didn't want to leave the foul-smelling, claustrophobic carriage. He might never see this guy or his nice smile again. He didn't even know his name.

 

*

 

Gabriel hovered for brief moment (in indecision? Peter wondered) before coming to a decision and blurting out one last “thanks”, and being swept away onto the bustling platform before Peter had a chance to reply. He turned to watch him through the window, but despite his towering height, Gabriel had disappeared into the faceless sea of commuters as if he'd never been there at all.

 

So Peter just sat with the seat still warm beneath him, the lingering trace of another person. It was almost as if Gabriel's new found happiness had hovered behind too, because Peter let it fill him up, discarding every inkling of doubt from the dreaded “lunch”, and he buzzed off it the entire journey home.

 

He did mean to go and get his watch fixed, he really did. But the next few weeks sped past in a blur of family and work dynamics and he never had the time to even think about his watch. And when Mrs Barker peacefully passed on and Peter was introduced to his new patient, a kind, elderly black man called Charles, it was love at first sight when he met Charles's beautiful daughter, and slowly those half-formed thoughts of that sad, lonely man from the train who needed saving slipped from his mind. The business card got lost somewhere in his apartment, and he didn't even notice. Gabriel became just a fond memory like so many other people Peter selflessly helped in passing, and he so humbly assumed that the watchmaker wouldn't even remember him, as hardly anybody else did.

 

*

 

But Gabriel didn't forget about the caring, beautiful stranger with the nice hair who had taken the time out of his day to be kind to him. Over the next few weeks his mediocre life continued as normal: boring and uneventful. He tried not to dwell too much on particular thoughts, but every time the bell above the door tinkled a little spark of hope erupted in his chest, only to die a harsher death each time it wasn't _him_ gracing his doorway.

The bruises on his ribs and toes had long since faded when he eventually gave up waiting. Why should he expect anyone to remember him? That kind guy had probably forgotten all about him, and he doubted they'd ever meet again anyway. But he didn't really mind: unfortunately, being ignored was hardly a new thing for Gabriel Gray. But this time he had something to compensate for the rejection: a lovely, heart-warming memory of wide hazel eyes and a funny squint lip. And, best of all, _kindness_ and _encouragement_ . Those feelings were so inspiring, and leaked slowly through him until one day it could only be called “determination”. Determination to do something more with his life, to _be_ something more... Even if he never saw that face again he knew he'd never forget it, and would always treasure that fateful half hour on the subway.

 

***

 

Little did he know that in just over half a year's time, he'd come face to face again with the caring, beautiful stranger with the nice hair. Far away from his clocks and his over-protective mother, in a different life, as a different person, Sylar would pause for a second as he finally caught sight of the face of the man he was chasing. So many thoughts would speed through his head, and for a moment he would forget that he was “Sylar”, that he was _special_ now and _powerful_ , and that he had killed so many innocents to get to where he was. For a moment, there on top of the school stadium, losing his reality in that frightened, hazel gaze, he would be transported back to that afternoon six and a half months earlier. The one where small smiles and a few kind words from a stranger had given him hope for his own future.

 

Peter wouldn't recognise him - how could he? Over time his memory would have faded, but he would still be able to recall a gentle man with a shy smile and a longing to be liked. None of that would resonate with the serial killer towering above him. But Sylar would never forget that face - how could _he_? Everything, down to that gorgeous curve of overgrown fringe was exactly the same. The image of him was imprinted in his memory, and there used to be a time when he had pictured that face every day when he was sad or lonely and needed a happy thought.

 

Then he would suddenly be brought crashing back into the present, to the fear and terror he had caused on such an honest face, and he'd feel the slightest flicker of a long-forgotten emotion: regret. But there would be no time to dwell on that as Peter, still as self-sacrificing and naïve as he was the last time they met, would grab hold of him and send them both plunging to a messy, painful death for the sake of an innocent. And when Sylar would pick himself up, aching and bleeding, he would cast a forlorn look over the mangled body that had cushioned his fall and died for no reason. Such a waste. It didn't have to be this way...

 

But it would be too late now. He couldn't go back to his old life. He _wouldn't_ go back to his old life. Not after so much he had finally gained, how far he had come.

 

But despite those thoughts, Sylar would hate himself (a habit he had purposely crushed soon after reinventing himself) for leaving the little man behind and trailing footsteps through his blood. He would remember the time when they had last been side by side on the ground, scrambling for cogs and ratchets on the dirty, cluttered floor of the train. He would remember the time when the innocent Peter had selflessly tried to help had been him.

 


	2. Do You Remember Me?

 

“Do you remember the first time we met, Peter?”

 

Peter looked up from his egg sandwich, having been deeply engrossed in the simple pleasure of how it tasted exactly like real food, and staring off into space for the past silent minutes. Or he thought it had been minutes, he never could quite tell the correct passing of time here. He turned his head to raise his eyebrows at the man sitting beside him, both their backs to the unyielding red wall, the sledgehammers temporarily discarded during the lunch break. “Where did _that_ come from?” There was a touch of humour in his voice as if he was expecting a joke of some sort. The last topic before the conversation had faded had been ducks, and how Peter had been mortally afraid of them as an infant. His first meeting with Sylar had been the last thing on his mind.

 

*

 

Sylar heated under Peter's questioning gaze, stomach twisting into knots. He himself had been reminiscing while he toyed half-heartedly with his own lunch, and to find his eyes on the present-day counterpart to the Peter in his memory made his throat constrict. So much had happened since then. He avoided the question. “Well? Do you?”

 

Almost thoughtfully, when Peter finally decided to answer, his voice was low and tinged with regret. “Yeah I remember. Do you seriously think I could forget?” And for a moment, that same tiny flicker of hope sparked to life within Sylar's beating chest, and he wondered if he could possibly have been mistaken all this time. “It's not every day you fall to your death with a super-powered serial killer, is it?”

 

The flame sputtered to an untimely death, the tiniest plume of smoke rising like a full stop to quash the idea for good. “Why did you ask?” Peter prompted, taking another bite of his sandwich. Sylar watched him chew, always a fascinating spectacle considering the lack of control he had over his lower lip, and felt sadness trickle over him not for the first time that day. It had been so long since he'd seen that little mouth smile.

 

“Just curious I suppose...” He dismissed the topic, resuming his own lunch to stop himself accidentally saying more. So never-forgets-a-face Peter Petrelli truly didn't recognise him as poor, pathetic Gabriel Gray? Not that he could blame him (and really he'd always suspected as much) but now that he knew for sure, both relief and regret battled to dominate his emotions. Maybe he should be happy that he'd forever be known as strong and powerful over small and weak. Or maybe he should just admit to himself that, really, he wanted to tell Peter the truth...? Just not yet. He wasn't ready to yet. The thought required some serious scrutiny before coming to a decision. That was if he even decided to come to a decision at all, and Sylar was uncomfortable under his own pressure.

 

*

 

The two finished off their meagre meals in silence, but it was a comfortable one which was still a recent improvement. Not too long ago they couldn't be in the same room without some form of bruising, physical or emotional, resulting from it. But these past few weeks (minutes? Seconds? It was so confusing trying to translate the appropriate amount of real time to every day of this punishment) had somehow been different. Something had changed.

 

Peter still wasn't quite sure what it was. It wasn't like there was one pivotal moment that had changed everything between them, or one reason he could pinpoint that was responsible for the considerable lack of murderous feelings towards his only companion. All Peter knew was that somehow Sylar just didn't annoy him so much anymore, although he would be damned if he'd admit this aloud. But the supposedly “reformed” killer's closeness didn't make the paramedic's skin crawl with repulsion or fury anymore, and just the simple sounds of him breathing (that used to drive Peter up the wall) were now actually a comfort. It was nice to know he wasn't truly alone here, even if the tangled mess of their past still dragged along like chains shackled to their ankles, uniting them. The chains rattled like constant reminders of what they'd done and who they had been to each other over the past few years. So much blood. So much violence.

 

But today was a good day, and there weren't too many of those to go around. Peter had woken to find himself in almost a good mood, which in this current predicament was the closest thing to a miracle he'd get except a crack in that goddamn wall. And so when Sylar had cast up the unpleasantness of their encounter in Union Wells, today the memory didn't sting as much as usual. He let it slide and prepared to continue his relentless attempts to get them out of here, happy to just enjoy the quiet company while he worked.

 

*

 

A further few weeks passed until Sylar had eventually convinced himself that he truly _wanted_ to tell Peter the truth. That he _wanted_ to unlock the secret he'd sworn never to reveal, and see if it would tip the ever-balancing scale in Peter's chest from unforgiving to absolution. The thought scared him, of opening himself up to such risk of rebuffal and cruelty in the form of harsh words and mean statements about how pitiful he used to be, and how far he'd even managed to fall since then.

 

But he hoped, and thought he knew, that the goodness that had first amazed him about Peter would be enough to cushion the fall. If these past two years of utter solitude with the guy had taught him anything, it was that Peter was still as much of a sucker for vulnerability as he was the first time Sylar had laid eyes on him.

 

Today they were sitting on opposite couches in the city's library, Sylar having convinced Peter to take the day off from the Wall and have a well-deserved wind down with a good book. Truthfully though, he didn't want those sledgehammers anywhere in the vicinity if his confession didn't get the desired reaction he hoped it would. A few hardbacks to the face? That, however, he could handle if it came to it.

 

The silence emanated audibly from their still forms, the only two living things in this world. Every turn of a page and slide of fabric against skin as one of them shifted in his seat was loud, and Sylar worried that Peter might be able to hear his racing heartbeat too. An hour and a half had already passed this way, and he tried not to feel angry that the recede of his homicidal nature seemed to have drained his confidence too.

 

He watched Peter subtly over the top of his page, brows heavy and hands moist, and he prayed his fear wouldn't be obvious in his voice.

 

*

 

“We met before, y'know.”

 

Peter frowned at the tiny font on his immense page. He needed every ounce of concentration to swallow the density of this story and its ridiculously complicated narrative. He hated books that were more hassle to read than the story was to follow, but Sylar had suggested this as “an easy read”, and Peter would rather sit and struggle through it for the endless years ahead of him here than admit he could barely hack an hour of it. He shrugged his shoulders and made a half-assed “hm?” in reply, not really listening. But great, now he'd lost his place anyway, and had to restart the slow, drudging page again from the beginning.

 

“Peter.” Sylar purred, waiting patiently until Peter had failed to take in the same line three times and looked up with an irritated sigh.

 

“What?” He snapped, resting the stupid book on his lap and rubbing fingers to his throbbing forehead. It had made him cranky.

 

“I said we met before, y'know.”

 

“I heard you.” Peter retorted defensively, although he couldn't actually recall what Sylar had said before. It took his over-exerted brain a few moments to churn through Sylar's statement. “Wait, what? What're you talking about?”

 

“Before Odessa.”

 

Peter blinked at his companion, unsure if this was a game he wasn't following or if it was just his underdeveloped mind that couldn't handle “an easy read” blanking out a part of his own past (well it wouldn't be the first time. He thought of Rene humourlessly).

 

Sylar had lowered his own book too, and was casually sprawled out on the couch looking right at home and seemingly very much relaxed. The corner of his lips were twitching, and his gaze held steady while he waited for Peter's reply. “What, no we didn't. I'd think I'd remember that.” Peter said, stretching his stiff back and arms. After so long pounding the wall repeatedly, it felt strange to sit unmoving for long periods of time. “You're hardly an easy thing to forget, Sylar.”

 

*

 

This time a nervous grin managed to spread across his face, and Sylar chuckled inwardly at the irony. “Really?” He said lightly, his poised demeanour holding strong.

 

His insides fizzled with bubbles of enjoyment as he watched Peter's forehead crease and his head tilt to the side. He looked so cute when confused, and thankfully that seemed to happen quite a lot. Sylar never got bored of it though, and when Peter pushed his overgrown fringe behind his ear in the exact same way he had on that train, it only cemented Sylar's decision to go through with this.

 

“I don't get it.” Peter huffed, still annoyed due to his book. Sylar had counted the very few pages turning and discerned that Peter was struggling. He would never admit that the book he'd suggested was one of the most complicated he himself had ever tried (and failed) to read, and that he'd just wanted to see Peter attempt it for the fun of watching him try. The little man's stubbornness and utter refusal to quit a task really was quite admirable, and Sylar found that, too, another cute factor of Peter's. Except when it came to the Wall. That was just infuriating.

 

“You're telling me we knew each other before you tried to kill me in Odessa?” Peter said slowly, sounding like a tired child on the verge of a tantrum. Normally that didn't bode well, but Sylar had high hopes for this evening.

 

“New York is a busy city, Peter. People meet all the time.”

 

Finally Peter had realised Sylar was toying with him, and he slouched back in his seat to mirror the authoritative pose opposite. Head tilted, eyes narrowed, he said silkily. “Why don't you just tell me what you're gonna end up telling me anyway? Save all this hassle?” He span a finger in the air between them in a “hurry it along” signal.

 

Oh, Peter. Sylar laughed openly at his bluntness, hands slapping to his knees. It was funny how underneath the hardened, toughened exterior, he knew that the empath's golden heart still glowed warmly inside, desperate to help those in need and see the good in everyone. That was the whole reason he was here in the first place, after all: the whole carnival shebang that Sylar was supposed to somehow stop to save thousands of lives. But no matter how much bravado and self-control Peter flaunted, sometimes little flecks of undiluted goodness and naivete would slip through his armour and Sylar would be reminded of them both on their knees on a filthy floor, scrabbling madly around unmoving feet for worthless scraps of metal.

 

“Alright, no need to get impatient. We met in the city not too long before Odessa. Got talking. Flirting, really. You came onto me rather enthusiastically, Peter, I'm not gonna lie.”

 

“What?!” Peter exclaimed, lips lifting as he readied to laugh at the inevitable punchline. “Yeah, right.”

 

Sylar's eyebrows twitched. “You even got my number.”

 

Peter scoffed. “Right. Now I know you're lying. I've never asked a guy for his number in my life.”

 

“Oh alright then, business card. But lets not get picky.”

 

Another sigh and shake of silky hair announced that Peter was tiring of this game. “Just be straight with me, man, don't drag it out. Where were we when we “supposedly met”? The park? A row boat on the pond?”

 

Sylar told himself that it was silly to feel upset that Peter clearly needed more reminding than he had originally thought. Did that mean the memory meant nothing at all to him? Maybe in those days he had helped a lot of desperate people, and so Gabriel didn't stand out as one particular event amongst others? Despite these nagging doubts, he managed to keep his tone light and teasing. “We were on the subway, you insisted I take your seat. And you stood for the remainder of the journey, not-so-subtly checking me out.”

 

To his credit, Peter actually chuckled. “Okay, whatever. I'll bite. And what did we talk abou...” But then his voice tapered out with a little puff of breath, and Sylar was rewarded with the most piercing silence he'd experienced that day. His heart thrummed watching Peter's eyes widen and his lovely mouth fall open. Oh yes, he knew he'd finally got him this time.

 

*

 

At first Peter couldn't believe it. Didn't _want_ to believe it. But that long-forgotten, fond memory had been unfolded from the back of his mind and was now billowing widely, obscuring his vision completely.

 

It had been the day of the last “lunch” he'd ever had with his father, having successfully managed to avoid him and his not-so-subtle-suggestions until his “heart-attack”. It felt so much longer ago than only a few years, before Peter had even known anything about abilities. He remembered the encompassing feeling of worthiness and meaning after helping that struggling, hopeless man... the handsome one with glasses and the box full of metal bits and pieces for clocks... no, _time pieces_...

 

Peter could do nothing except watch dumbly as two vibrant images in his mind's eye collided: one a blurry, longing possibility of what could have been; the other the only scrap of reality he had in his life at this moment. The two pictures overlapped to form the same face, the one Peter now knew better than any other, the only one beside his own in this isolated nightmare realm.

 

He was knocked speechless by this revelation, the stupid book sliding from between numb fingers to land heavily on the seat of the couch to the side. How could he never have seen it before?! It all fit... a watchmaker, tall and striking (not that he allowed himself to think of Sylar that way, but there was no denying it was true), those deep, excruciating eyes... he'd always known Sylar had a shameful past even before the murders, one that he hated and tried his best to hide at all costs. But Peter had suspected one of petty crime or something similar, rather than the self-loathing of a timid man who wanted so much more from his shameful existence. Peter shivered as the emotive memory of that subway carriage rolled phantom waves of Gabriel's shame and pity through him now, no -  _Sylar's_ shame and pity, as tiny pings of metal sang out across the floor...

 

Then betrayal stung through his veins sharply, and he felt lost, almost heart-broken. Although it had been years since he'd last thought of the quiet watchmaker (he'd been more than preoccupied since then by saving the world a few times, amongst other things) he could still almost feel the ghost of that afternoon. His empathy had stored the emotions that had swam between them in pristine condition, and they were regurgitated now, blinding Peter in the afterglow. The memory had been one that had made him happy to re-live, given him courage to keep going with his nursing in times he had let the doubt creep in. Now it just felt fake, wrong.

 

Only then did he realise he'd been staring, open-mouthed and gob-smacked at Sylar for the better part of a minute.

 

*

 

Patient as always, Sylar let Peter have his time to recover. He tried not to stare too eagerly as he watched his companion struggle to swallow the truth. Finally Peter's dazed eyes returned to Sylar's, as if they fell on a different person. He looked forlornly across from his couch, mouth loose and eyes shining, and Sylar's gut clenched involuntarily. Thanks to Nathan's memories he could identify that look as the _exact_ same one Peter had worn when finding out his father had died (the first time). It hurt more than Sylar had thought it would.

 

Finally Peter spoke, voice cracking. “That was you...?” Silently, Sylar nodded his confirmation. Butterflies had sprung to life in his stomach, and he bit back the smile that wanted to plaster itself across his face. So Peter _did_ remember after all. After all this time...

 

“You never did come by my shop. I waited for you. I had the specific tools for your watch set aside and everything.”

 

There was a tight, choking sound in Peter's throat as he let that statement sink in. “What... _happened_ to you? You're so different... what happened to turn you into... _you_...?!” He waved a loose arm at all of Sylar, who tried not to feel too insulted. He had been preparing for this possibility after all, and hadn't expected hugs and comfort straight away. The shock was only natural.

 

“A lot of things.” He answered hesitantly. That was a conversation for another time.

 

*

 

Peter hated the world for taking a gentle man with so much potential and his whole life ahead of him, and turning him into the person now sprawled out over the couch that was too small for his long legs. It couldn't be true... it wasn't fair. It broke his heart to know what a path Sylar had taken after the short time they had shared each other's company. He had had such high hopes for him... wished him well and good luck...

 

Then Peter stood with surprising fluidity considering the pins and needles making themselves known in his legs, and seemed to float towards Sylar, who quickly stood to accommodate him. He came to a stop only when his stomach almost brushed the taller man's, uncaring at the inappropriate closeness that he craved. He just needed to be near another warm body, for any scrap of comfort he could get, and of course there was only one other warm body here.

 

Peter's frown furrowed and he blinked rapidly, glaring into Sylar's eyes as if being this close would somehow reveal a lie hidden in them. Of _course_ it had been him... he would never be able to rationalize how he hadn't recognised those eyes in all these years. Goosebumps trailed down Peter's spine as he remembered the way the watchmaker (no, _Sylar)_ had made him feel so exposed with a flick of his gaze. How many people had felt that same sensation before having their heads ripped open by this man? Yet, too hopeful for his own good, Peter just couldn't fathom that it had been Sylar all along.

 

His fringe fanned across his face as he shook his head in denial. Grasping at straws, he cleared his throat. “But no! I saw you – I _felt_ you! You wanted to be liked! To make a difference! To be -”

 

“Special?”

 

His argument faded in his throat with an assuring twitch of Sylar's magnificent brows. Yes, the watchmaker had wanted to be special... but Peter had just assumed it meant in a good way, the way he himself had felt at the time. The way he still felt today. He thought it had united them, that they were the same in that respect... it was the fondest aspect of that day that he carried with him. But now it was ruined, tainted as if black paint had been tossed over it to tarnish the surface.

 

“Why are you telling me this, Sylar? Why now?”

 

*

 

Guilt washed over Sylar's insides like the tide over sand, and he suddenly regretted ever saying anything. Not because his plan was backfiring, but because it was working too perfectly. It felt cruel to manipulate Peter this way, even though it was only through truth. Sylar had correctly predicted that sharing this memory would allow Peter to see more of Sylar's humanity (what little he felt there was of it). But now that he had gotten what he wanted, he wished he could bandage up the wound and pretend he hadn't ripped it open in the first place. Out of kindness for his only companion.

 

Peter looked close to tears, but defiant, and with no idea what to do with himself. It was the closest to breaking point Sylar had ever seen him, the closest to _forgiveness_ , and with no option of undoing the conversation to save Peter the hurts, Sylar had no choice but to brave going forward. He followed the next step of his plan, using it like a crutch to give him strength.

 

His voice sounded too loud in the otherwise deathly silent library. “I wanted to thank you. You were so kind to me that day, you made the effort nobody else did. I realise now it was a pretty small conversation, but at the time it felt like so much more.”

 

Peter's face was dry but, if anything, the absence of tears made more impact.

 

*

 

His facial muscles were tight, held taut in a composed expression, but he knew he was pathetically readable anyway. At least a good deal easier to interpret than that fucking expedition of a novel that lay discarded on the couch behind him.

 

He let Sylar's words sink in, and it was too easy to picture them coming from the stubble-free, be-speckled version of his face under the neatly parted and smoothed hair. The kind words eased his heart into beating normally again, but he was almost afraid to hope that he really had helped Sylar back then.

 

Maybe he was responsible for instilling just a little bit of goodness into _that_ blackened heart...?

 

*

 

“You were the first person to make me feel important, even just a little. You said I was special, that I made a difference in my own way... and that was when -” SMACK! Sylar reeled back, hand to his smarting jaw.

 

“ _Don't you DARE pin this on me!_ ” All of the last minute's helplessness and softness had evaporated from Peter, and now he loomed tall and menacing despite his shorter height. The fire in his eyes seemed to light the whole room, and his hands were shaking where they were balled into fists by his sides, the right one smarting after the punch.

 

Most of Sylar's earlier guilt retreated back the way it had came, and he felt stupid for thinking of Peter as vulnerable or in need of tender care. His angelic face and puppy-dog eyes were the most perfect, deadly trap (and Sylar had fallen for them enough times that he had no excuse by now). He really ought to stop forgetting the little Petrelli could more than look after himself, and packed a punch better than anyone else Sylar knew. His head was spinning from the impact to his chin, and he couldn't place the moment when things had suddenly gone so wrong, or why.

 

“Don't you DARE tell me that who you are _now_ , that everything you've _done_ , is MY fault!”

 

When understanding dawned on Sylar, the guilt reappeared right on cue. He straightened back up to his full height, hands out in a gesture of surrender. “What? Peter, I'm not! I didn't mean-”

 

*

 

“You mean _I_ was the one who gave you the idea to be “special”! And I know damn well where it took you!” The impact of that statement stung painfully. As much as Peter hated it, he couldn't escape the fact that most of his best, well-intended efforts seemed to end badly for everyone involved. No matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to be the one to kick-start a catastrophe. Maybe that was why he was so defensive now, because he knew that it could easily be true this time as well. He prayed that it wasn't, but the doubt had invaded and it was already constricting his airway.

 

Hot, searing anger breathed life into Peter's muscles, and he tensed for another strike. He needed action, reassurance, anything to deflect the agony that _he_ was the one at fault for everything... everyone... _Nathan...._ “ _I'm_ not responsible for the deaths you've caused!” The shelves echoed furiously, so that the whole library resounded those words over and over again. But somehow they still didn't sound convincing. “Don't try to pass the blame, or, or rope me into it with you-”

 

*

 

“Stop! I'm _not_! I didn't mean it that way... Peter!” Annoyed that the situation was quickly slipping down the “unsalvageable” slope, Sylar grabbed for Peter's wrists and held them fast, stopping any more oncoming fists. As much as he'd included it as a possibility, Sylar didn't fancy being yelled at or pummelled by the furious, unstoppable little being that was an upset Petrelli. He couldn't be more grateful that he had thought enough ahead to ensure the sledgehammers were far and truly out of reach (he had no desire whatsoever to see Peter wielding another DIY inspired weapon for his benefit).

 

The two men struggled for a moment but Sylar held on easily. Clearly Peter wasn't fully invested in a fight, or he knew he'd never have gotten away with it. Breathing deeply and ignoring the click in his jaw, Sylar spoke insistently. “Don't take it that way. I meant you gave me _hope, purpose_...”

 

“Hope for what?! Going around slicing brains out of people's skulls for _fun_?!” Peter spat, his lip more squint than usual in it's fury. He wrenched his wrists free from Sylar's grasp, but made no move to punch him again. Instead, worse than another fight until one or both of them snorted out blood, Peter turned on his heel and made to storm out of the library.

 

“Wait!” Sylar pleaded, frozen to the spot where Peter had left him. He couldn't bare another bout of the silent treatment. Not while they were _just_ doing so well.

 

*

 

It was the raw emotion in the one word that made Peter re-think his retreat. He didn't raise his gaze from his scuffed and well-worn boots until he was standing before Sylar again. But this time there was more of a casual distance between them.

 

“What do you want from me? Why did you tell me this? What did you think would _happen_?” He spoke defeatedly, scrubbing a hand over the rough stubble on his chin, stretching his neck from side to side. Truthfully, he didn't want another fight. His right hand was already throbbing, and he didn't think he had it in him to keep this up for the rest of eternity. He was already so tired of this place, of all the arguing, but mostly of never knowing where he stood with the ex-killer.

 

“I wanted to give you hope, the way you have for me so many times. I wanted to give you more motivation.”

 

“To what? Break that goddamn thing down faster to get away from you?” He regretted it as soon as he said it, but the ripple of understanding surrounded both men equally.

 

After too long a silence, eventually Sylar answered. “No. I thought that if you remembered that you cared about me once, you might be more inclined to do so again. I thought it might make it easier for you to forgive me.”

 

*

 

It was bold, and reckless, and probably not the right thing to have said, but at this point Sylar would rather regurgitate it all into the open so he could breathe more freely. His keen eyes tracked the progression of emotions chase each other across Peter's pretty face: first humour, then sympathy, then doubt, then finally, restrained anger once again.

 

“I think it's gonna take a hell of a lot more than that to make me forgive you.” The smaller man crossed his arms sternly across his chest, biceps bulging and reminding Sylar just enough that they were always there to beat him into place if need be. He took in the furrow on Peter's forehead, the way his lips pursed just a little while he chewed back more harsh words, the backwards curve of his body that stated very clearly that he felt threatened, but was too stubborn to be the one to run away again.

 

Sometimes Sylar forgot that Peter was still wary of him. It made moments like these hit so much harder, when Peter felt the genuine need to protect himself from Sylar. He sighed, their shoulders brushing as he pushed a short distance past Peter. “I know that. I don't expect it to happen overnight, and I respect that. But I need to know if you're really _trying_? I don't know how much longer I can survive here if you don't believe in me, Peter.”

 

An affronted gasp sounded from behind him. “I'm sorry, “ _I'm_ trying”?! Don't you realise you're getting a hell of a lot more pardon than you deserve? I don't _have_ to sit here reading with you like we're best buddies! I don't have to cook pasta the way you like it, or to stock up on decaf when you run out! D'you think _I_ ever imagined I'd be living with the guy who successfully killed half my family, and repeatedly tried to kill the other half?”

 

“Of course not.” Sylar said, voice hushed. He kept his back to Peter, feeling braver when not confronted with the disappointment in those eyes. He'd always had a soft spot for Peter's eyes. “And I know you've been very lenient on me, and I _do_ appreciate it. But don't you see that that's exactly why I need to know you're trying?”

 

More pursed lips and raised brows surveyed Sylar's heated back, he didn't have to see it to feel it. “Look at this...” Sylar said, unable to keep a little pity from his tone.

 

*

 

Peter stopped chewing his tongue to let out a scoff, trying to cover his foolish embarrassment. He tried to ignore the burning cringe that fizzled up his insides as Sylar turned with Peter's mountain of a book in his hand, open at the page he had left it at.

 

“12.” Sylar said simply, practically shoving the book into Peter's face so he could see the number at the top corner. “In an hour an a half, you only managed 12 pages.”

 

Peter batted the book away, getting defensive again. Maybe just the sight of the thing had clogged up his brain function, but he couldn't understand why Sylar would go so off-topic to taunt him about his reading speed. “So what? I'm tired, give me a break -”

 

“No.” Sylar let the book fall closed with a loud _thunk_ onto the couch. “You're determined. I watched you the whole time, you weren't skipping paragraphs or pretending to understand. You read every word and tried to make sense of it all. Even though the book is far beyond your intellectual level-” he lifted a hand to silence Peter's annoyed retort. “You never gave up, and never admitted defeat.”

 

He took two steps towards Peter on long, graceful legs, wearing an encouraging smile that was so utterly inappropriate and out of place that Peter wondered for a moment whether he was actually dreaming inside the dream. It would explain away so much, so simply. But Sylar's hands on his upper arms were hot, and his fingers squeezing tightly ruled out the dream-within-a-dream possibility. “Can you just get to the point?” He said, a little snarkily.

 

*

 

Adorable, he thought fondly, admiring the cute flustered look Peter had when he felt out of his depth. It was the same one he'd worn when battling through the book earlier. He really was so dense sometimes, but Sylar could forgive him that this time considering the weight of the conversation and the strain it must have put on that delicate brain.

 

“If those 12 pages, and all those hours you've spent hacking at the wall mean anything, it's that you'll never give up.” The beauty of it all was that it was true. Through both Peter's dead brother's memories and his own, he knew that it might take weeks, months or even years, but if the empath chose to eventually take pity on him, Sylar would have the strength to give redemption another try. Just having the slightest hope to cling to would make it all worth it, just to know he wasn't swimming alone in the dark until the end of time.

 

Finally Peter seemed to realise where this was going, and he shifted self-consciously, unused to such bold, worded admiration. Sylar rubbed his thumbs in little circles against the delicate insides of Peter's upper arms, feeling his skin hot beneath his sleeves. This must have been the longest amount of friendly touch that had ever gone between them. “I know you, Peter, you're the most stubborn man I've ever met. And you'll never give up on anything you set your heart on. Even a lost cause.” The loft of his eyebrows added the unspoken “me” both men were thinking.

 

*

 

It was a lot to handle in such a short span of time: that the sweet guy he had once longed after had been Sylar all along; that he was responsible, however indirectly, for birthing the infamous serial killer that had torn Peter's own life apart and that of many of his friends; and that said infamous man put so much faith and trust in Peter, and trusted him to save them all in the end.

 

“That's not fair.” He murmured, raising his chin in an attempt to fake control. Heat was spreading out from every pad of Sylar's fingertips, warming him on the inside too. The touch was soft and foreign, and embarrassingly, Peter couldn't remember the last time anything other than a punch had touched him. But Peter Petrelli, the sensitive, caring man, was a lot stronger than a lot of people gave him credit for. And although the warmth of someone else's skin made him want to curl into Sylar in a hug and stay there until morning, he wouldn't allow himself to be swayed so easily. He wasn't there yet. “You're trying to manipulate me into feeling guilty for not getting over what you've done.”

 

The tiniest of mischievous grins sparked at the corner of Sylar's full lips. “Is it working?”

 

Peter huffed, the instant desire to shove Sylar's hands off him driving him to recoil and break the contact between them. Cold air pressed firmly onto the places that now missed another human touch. He squinted at Sylar for a few, wordless seconds, unsure if Sylar seriously had the nerve to joke about this, or if he had somehow misinterpreted yet another signal along the way.

 

Did Sylar honestly think this was funny? That if he cast up an old, cosy memory and ever so slightly eased the pain of going so long without contact, that Peter would flick a switch and instantly forget everything and everyone behind them?! Surely his sense of humour wasn't that twisted (well, he had once laughed while in the middle of torture, with metal nails stabbing him to a table, but that was under very different circumstances). Peter wanted to doubt Sylar's insolence, but the more he watched, the wider that grin spread, as if the guy really thought he was making some good progress with that tactic.

 

*

 

“Go fuck yourself.” Peter threw the words into Sylar's face, then stalked out of the library without turning back for any plea. Not that one came, anyway.

 

Sylar watched his little frame shove the door open and be engulfed by the bright white sunlight outside. When the door slammed shut behind him, the darkness within the building seemed doubly as intensified. He let out a long sigh and dropped back onto his couch, Peter's book catching his eye.

 

So it had been a bad idea to try to laugh it off at the end. Lesson learned, sorted and stored into one of the many shelves of “do not's” when around Peter. But even though the conversation had ended in the inevitable way, Sylar found that he actually felt pretty good about the whole ordeal. Somehow he didn't feel the dread of more neglected weeks coiling around his neck like a noose. Somehow he just knew that Peter would be back soon. Something had changed, for the better, Sylar hoped. And anyway he had faith. That Peter had chosen to storm off rather than finish Sylar off once and for all was a good sign, that the youngest Petrelli would still rather have Sylar than be alone. Despite not getting a solid answer to his question, Sylar didn't need Nathan's ghost to tell him that Peter's resolve was wearing, little by little.

 

At least he finally had the weight lifted off his chest about their first encounter, and he knew it had been a good decision to share it. Or would, at least, become one in time. All there was for Peter to do in this nightmare world was continue his useless hammering of the wall, either avoid or associate with Sylar, or be alone with nothing but his own memories for company. And Sylar had just provided him with a kicker that was bound to keep him busy for a while.

 

And just as he once had been, back when he had so innocently offered his seat to someone he deemed more worthy, Peter was still Sylar's aspiration to be better, to be stronger. Except this time, instead of cursing others with his new found “strength”, he would save himself with the power needed to do so. And this time, instead of unfulfilled promises and an empty shop, Sylar would have Peter here to give him the courage to do things properly.

 

As he'd said to Peter: forcing through 12 pages of an unreadable text and working through countless hours on an unbreakable wall were only means to measure Peter's tenacious tendency to hold on fast... even to a lost cause, such as Sylar himself. It didn't matter how long it took: he had faith that Peter Petrelli, his hero, wouldn't let go of him either.

 

***

 

A few empty, quiet years from then would find Sylar huddled by himself on the cold ground, just staring and staring at the hard, unyielding face of the wall. It wouldn't look any different, not one crumb of mortar looser as evidence of the passing of time.

 

Peter's scuffing footsteps would announce his appearance behind Sylar, who would be surprised with a tap to the wrong shoulder, then a wrapped book dropped in his lap. Peter would wait, making an ill-timed joke to distract from his nervousness as Sylar unwrapped his gift, and for a moment Sylar would dread the thought that Peter had tricked him into another attempt to finish what they now affectionately called “The Unreadable”.

 

But once the wrapping is off and the title is on display, Sylar would be hit by the care and time Peter had put in to prepare this present for him. And Peter would try to hide the smile that threatens to betray his happiness that the book is appreciated, and would once again take up the all too familiar stance with hammer in hand and brick in front.

 

It would all be too much for Sylar, the years of waiting and trying, trying so hard to prove his redemption as genuine, so he would try for the thousandth time to goad Peter into admitting that he believed him. They would argue, as always, except this time would be different. This time would be the time when the caring, beautiful, once-upon-a-time stranger with the same nice hair caved.

 

With two uttered syllables, Peter's voice a soft caress that set fire to Sylar's insides, all would finally be forgiven. Forgiven, not forgotten, but forgiven would be enough. It would be more than enough for them both, as neither had ever imaged they would ever truly reach that moment.

 

Once Peter's confession is finally coaxed from his lips, everything would shift. The wall would tremble, dust would crumble like rain down onto the two desperate men as they broke and tore at the bricks, yearning to reach their well-deserved freedom. Whatever they were to find outside in the brave new world that awaited them, they would face it side by side. And they would always remember how a few kind words changed the whole world, and the lives of two perfect strangers on a seemingly normal afternoon commute under the streets of New York City.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, please feel free to leave a comment :)


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